Post by Lady Rosalind Avalle on Nov 30, 2008 20:56:10 GMT -6
Rosalind wrapped herself firmly against the cold in thick wool. Her dark hair was pinned and coiled away beneath the usual wimple, thanks to the deft hands of her lady's maid, but a few strands curled rebelliously above her eyes. She flicked one of the curls aside to little avail as she made her way slowly down the street, her unique way of moving hardly what one would consider graceful, but certainly practiced enough to be efficient. Far too practical to spurn the Church at this hour of her life, she nevertheless seemed one more likely to find peace in the wilds, unleashing the thoughts that troubled her soul to the sky and the sand, rather than upon some hapless priest caught in the tidal pull of Scotland's darkest intrigues.
Certainly, it would clear her mind, if not her conscience, if she did just that. But the Church had served her well over the years, even if men had failed her in the last few months. She stepped within, genuflecting before proceeding down the aisle. Moments later, in the confessional, she relished the anonymous silence, closing her eyes only until the priest on the other side had finished his Latin.
With her rosary looped about her right hand, she returned with the standard response, her Latin more learned than the priest's. She begged forgiveness for her sins and the priest, perhaps as world-weary as the penitent, asked if she was contrite. Rosalind smiled faintly into the dark. "Yes," she replied, and was saddened to realize that she was indeed. Her most recent letter was still crisp in her pocket, the handwriting as exacting as a death knell. That she had not read it already made the words seem that much more demanding. For a woman who could be nothing less than precise in every word and action, she was not sure how to respond, or even if a response was necessary.
"You are troubled," the priest commented. He needn't be particularly astute to make the observation. She did not seem in a hurry to leave his company.
Rosalind slowly moved the beads between her fingers, her thoughts lining up as precisely as the cool stones. "I have confessed my wrath," she said slowly. "I cannot atone for sins that are not my own, I know this."
"Are you afraid that in admitting to your rage, you are admitting defeat?" She heard laughter from the other side of the partition and was surprised to find her cheeks ablaze. She pressed her lips together to silence any comment brewing within. She had never been accused of being of a sweet and compliant nature, but neither was she spiteful or mean. If she rebelled, her weapon was logic and the outcome justice. She could think of many she had met recently whom she had admired for warmth and kindness. Rosalind had been independent for far too long to remember those social niceties. They, like her knee, yielded only after much cajoling and alcohol. "You confessed to the sin of vanity. I see this was an understatement."
Rosalind laughed softly, clutching her rosary to her breast as she waited for the verdict. "It is the worst of my sins, Father. I take pride in what is mine and all that I have accomplished." She would not praise the Lord for those achievements, just as she would not blame Him for her failings. She was humble enough to accept the effects of her actions, particularly those that were not very godly or altruistic. She was not a very godly or altruistic woman, after all.
The priest had very little to say in the face of such honesty. He told her what words to say in her search for penance, blessed her, and she left. Before departing, Rosalind stopped at the altar to light a candle for her late husband, something she often did when she particularly missed his counsel. She lingered over the flame, thinking about what he might have to say about the letter nearly burning a hole in her pocket, and smiled at his imagined response. He, too, was a very practical man. He would have stood in their bedroom, arms folded across his chest, an impatient foot tapping upon the floor.
"Open it, Rosalind," he would say, pinning the letter with his dark eyes. And her fingers would fumble over the edges until she saw the handwriting, and somehow, with him standing nearby, even ill news seemed easier to bear.
Rosalind placed her rosary back into her pocket, her fingers brushing the letter. She should have the courage to open it. Domhnall would not have let her leave the castle, much less distract herself with confession, before reading the contents and constructing a proper reply. But as it was so painfully evident by the flickering candle before her, Domhnall was not here. He could not offer comfort or rejoice with her. Her husband was dead. For the moment, though, she savored the idea that he was present in God's house.
She opened the letter and read the contents, which did not amount to more than a few words. She looked up at the crucifix, absently folding the letter and sliding it back into her pocket with the rosary. Her expression neutral, she turned away and walked slowly back down the aisle, pausing at the door to wrap herself firmly with the woolen shawl.
Inveryne was besieged.
Certainly, it would clear her mind, if not her conscience, if she did just that. But the Church had served her well over the years, even if men had failed her in the last few months. She stepped within, genuflecting before proceeding down the aisle. Moments later, in the confessional, she relished the anonymous silence, closing her eyes only until the priest on the other side had finished his Latin.
With her rosary looped about her right hand, she returned with the standard response, her Latin more learned than the priest's. She begged forgiveness for her sins and the priest, perhaps as world-weary as the penitent, asked if she was contrite. Rosalind smiled faintly into the dark. "Yes," she replied, and was saddened to realize that she was indeed. Her most recent letter was still crisp in her pocket, the handwriting as exacting as a death knell. That she had not read it already made the words seem that much more demanding. For a woman who could be nothing less than precise in every word and action, she was not sure how to respond, or even if a response was necessary.
"You are troubled," the priest commented. He needn't be particularly astute to make the observation. She did not seem in a hurry to leave his company.
Rosalind slowly moved the beads between her fingers, her thoughts lining up as precisely as the cool stones. "I have confessed my wrath," she said slowly. "I cannot atone for sins that are not my own, I know this."
"Are you afraid that in admitting to your rage, you are admitting defeat?" She heard laughter from the other side of the partition and was surprised to find her cheeks ablaze. She pressed her lips together to silence any comment brewing within. She had never been accused of being of a sweet and compliant nature, but neither was she spiteful or mean. If she rebelled, her weapon was logic and the outcome justice. She could think of many she had met recently whom she had admired for warmth and kindness. Rosalind had been independent for far too long to remember those social niceties. They, like her knee, yielded only after much cajoling and alcohol. "You confessed to the sin of vanity. I see this was an understatement."
Rosalind laughed softly, clutching her rosary to her breast as she waited for the verdict. "It is the worst of my sins, Father. I take pride in what is mine and all that I have accomplished." She would not praise the Lord for those achievements, just as she would not blame Him for her failings. She was humble enough to accept the effects of her actions, particularly those that were not very godly or altruistic. She was not a very godly or altruistic woman, after all.
The priest had very little to say in the face of such honesty. He told her what words to say in her search for penance, blessed her, and she left. Before departing, Rosalind stopped at the altar to light a candle for her late husband, something she often did when she particularly missed his counsel. She lingered over the flame, thinking about what he might have to say about the letter nearly burning a hole in her pocket, and smiled at his imagined response. He, too, was a very practical man. He would have stood in their bedroom, arms folded across his chest, an impatient foot tapping upon the floor.
"Open it, Rosalind," he would say, pinning the letter with his dark eyes. And her fingers would fumble over the edges until she saw the handwriting, and somehow, with him standing nearby, even ill news seemed easier to bear.
Rosalind placed her rosary back into her pocket, her fingers brushing the letter. She should have the courage to open it. Domhnall would not have let her leave the castle, much less distract herself with confession, before reading the contents and constructing a proper reply. But as it was so painfully evident by the flickering candle before her, Domhnall was not here. He could not offer comfort or rejoice with her. Her husband was dead. For the moment, though, she savored the idea that he was present in God's house.
She opened the letter and read the contents, which did not amount to more than a few words. She looked up at the crucifix, absently folding the letter and sliding it back into her pocket with the rosary. Her expression neutral, she turned away and walked slowly back down the aisle, pausing at the door to wrap herself firmly with the woolen shawl.
Inveryne was besieged.